Been up since Tuesday salving your grease into
the claw mark on my shoulder. Slick and soothing on
the tender skin, the ragged edges. Spent most
of winter so far in the next room over, my pajamas delicious
against your sweet fur, and the snow outside
foot-deep hunks of glass could never trickle in
the edges, never see our eyes. Stone walls
breathe now and you’re still sleeping; stand
here stripped, flannel crisp with dried
bloodstains beside my wooden socks.

*

Keep waking up. Don’t understand how you
can do it, this long hill of sleep, how you keep
stone formations warm. It’s the same
every year, how restless I am by the first
thaw, first gleam of light after five, first
fading of my scars into thin white lines, how
much I still want to sleep nights. You’ll be
able to stay up for hours once you get up, watch
a hundred dawns. Remembering what that’s like
but right now it doesn’t matter.

*

Fresh bunches of green knotting in at
the edges of our door. What was red is only brown
by now but other colors are getting brighter. Can see
thin crooked lines of liquid where once there
was ice, can smell what’s coming. Mouth watering for
fruit again, peaches and wild cherries. Everything
lightens in the cave, even your snoring. Remember
that I have skin—nearly forgot, been so long since
anyone has looked. Just watching you breathe
now, the bristly rise and fall.